


Hurricane 2.0

by phrynne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Depression, Gay Sex, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:58:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9801674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynne/pseuds/phrynne
Summary: The scar on his forehead had never hurt again, but he had found out that some of the deepest scars were unseen to the eye. And for all the magic in the world, he didn’t know any spell that could mend those.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters, just borrowing them from J. K. Rowling who owns copyright.  
> Lyrics in the begining and title of this fic are from 30 Seconds to Mars' song Hurricane 2.0.

__

“No matter how many deaths that I die I will never forget 

No matter how many lives that I live, I will never regret 

There is a fire inside of this heart 

And a riot about to explode into flames” 

Hurricane 2.0, 30 Seconds to Mars

Eleven years after the War and the nightmares still hadn’t left him. Harry woke up alone to an empty bedroom, a scream from another time still echoing in his hears. He felt chilled to the bone. As usual his hands shot for the nightstand searching for his glasses there. He put them on in the total darkness. It was pointless of course, but it was a habit that came to him naturally. The glasses were like a part of his body, even more so than his wand. Still, he looked under his pillow and gripped the wand in his hand. He waited for his heart to still its beating and breathed slowly several times. He whispered Lumos and checked the time on his wristwatch on the table. 3 am. Crap. He threw the blankets away with a resigned sigh. He would not go back to sleep this night. 

That he always slept with his wand under his pillow was something that had worried Hermione for a long time, but she gave up trying to discuss the issue with him after a few heated arguments. Harry wouldn’t hear of it, or any of the therapy bulshit - “You’re probably suffering from PTSD. It would be good for you to have someone to talk to and help you. I went to a few sessions myself”, she’d say. She had made Ron go too. Good for them, he thought harshly. She was right, of course. Harry wasn’t able to have a good night’s sleep, even after all this time. He also knew that that was just the beginning of his problems. He knew how fucked up he was, he just wasn’t ready to have someone else telling him that yet. 

Not for the first time when he woke alone, he wondered why he’d turn down the nice bloke from the club that night. Ted was his name, or Greg. Or Guy, really. He was straining to remember, but gave up. The week before it had been a very hot woman named Gina. At least he thought that was her name. They’d shagged and it was nice. Two nights ago a blond man, slender. He had a nice arse. They did not exchange names. Harry never spent the night. Over the time he had started going for the blond handsome tall type. He only noticed the pattern when Hermione flatly pointed that out to him. Ron agreed. He then refused to discuss this with them. Hermione, in particular, was way to perceptive for him to be able to maintain his denial. And he quite needed his denial. 

He did remember the bloke from this night, or better his mouth on his neck, his hands travelling south and thought that it really was a pity. _But he was not blond, Hermione_ , he thought stubbornly. _Well at least I don’t remember that he was, and if I’m that obsessed with blondes I would remember, wouldn’t I?_ He stopped addressing the Hermione in his head and stood up. The man had his hand down his pants when Harry had made some lame excuse and came back alone to 12 Grimmauld Place. He could be making the most of his awake time right now. Instead he was staring at the fridge and took out a cold beer. 

It was like everything had happened just yesterday. The scar on his forehead had never hurt again, but he had found out that some of the deepest scars were unseen to the eye. And for all the magic in the world, he didn’t know any spell that could mend those.

  


***

  


3 am and Draco knew that it would be useless to go back to his flat. He knew what he had to look forward: another night of damned insomnia. It was the third in a row. The week before he was able to sleep a couple of nights - he was working on a difficult case that required all those extra hours - and he regarded that as a great accomplishment. Usually being out to two or three pubs and clubs until 6 am did the trick. He got home and slept three hours and then got up and got to work. If he was tired enough he would even sleep three hours straight, no nightmares, and that was something. 

So tonight it was still early. Draco looked up from his drink to the man across the room, that had been checking him out for some time now. He wasn’t particularly interested but he had some time to kill. He smiled. The man smiled back and came over, offered a drink, Draco said yes, and a minute later the man was brushing his lips against Draco’s neck, hands on his arse. It was nice. 

Draco sipped from his glass, still lost in thought. The man was working his neck with kisses and bites and his hands were going down on Draco. He just let him. That was part of the deal, after all. He would let some bloke blow him off until he forgot. Every week or every other day a different one. He didn’t know their names, even, but he couldn’t care less. It was agreed beforehand that those where only one night stands. They would come and go, or Draco would come and go, and he had only one rule: he never spent the night. 

It was hard to believe that eleven years had passed. Harder still when the Dark Mark on his left arm was still there. Now it was more of a scar, but there it was, relentless. Looking at it still made him sick. He avoided it as much as it was possible. He always wore long sleeves, even in the heat of Summer. After the War he had searched in vain for a way to magically remove it. He found out fast enough that such a mark, cast by powerful Dark Magic, could never be removed. Nevertheless, he tried every removal spell he knew. The serpent and skull shone on his skin, bright white. One night he looked at his arm and was so repulsed by it that he tore at it with his nails until his skin broke. The sight of blood made him sick to his stomach, but instead of making him stop he searched frantically for something sharp. Blaise found him sometime later lying on the bathroom floor, at Hogwarts, his arm bleeding and his eyes drained from all the crying. At that moment he finally learned something important: some wounds would never heal. 

The man from the club was taking him to a back room and leaning against him, hands all over. Draco barely even felt them. 

‘You’re hot,’ he was saying. 

Draco did not bother to answer. He pulled the man down on his knees, and the other happily obliged. 

Later that night when Draco arrived at his flat and finally laid down to sleep a couple of hours, he noticed he didn’t even remember the bloke’s name. Was it Terry? Jed? Maybe… Guy? Who cares. He didn’t even remember the blow job. But right before he passed out from sheer exhaustion he remembered something: his hair was jet-black and messy and he had gripped at it hard while he came into his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot publication *but* it's actually the beginning of a longer fic that I'm writing, which is now 46 pages long and counting - and will be published when finished under a different title. This is the prologue of that fic, but since it's my first fic I decided to share this bit with you and see if you like the writing style. Kudos and comments will be most appreciated for that reason - especially comments! It would be amazing if you could share with me your thoughts on what might happen next!


End file.
